The Fire Trumpet Part 94

"He says so."

"Oh! I see. H'm! Brag's a good dog. He shall have every advantage, as I said before. Well--till this evening."

McShane went out, sorely puzzled, and heartily wishing he was out of it.

In a moment of impulsive good-nature he had consented to act for Truscott when mad with rage. That worthy had given his own version of what had occurred, and besought his good offices; and then, being a thorough Irishman, there was a subtle spell hanging about a row in any shape that was altogether too potent for him, and Truscott happened to be an old schoolfellow of his, though he, McShane, had never liked him much, nor did he now. And if he had cherished any hopes of talking Claverton over, they were scattered now. There was a deadly purpose in the latter's speech and manner, all the more so because so quiet. No; things must take their chance.

Left to himself, Claverton sat for a few minutes in silent rumination.

Then he got up, and, opening a chest, took out a polished wooden case and unlocked it, disclosing a revolver. It was a beautifully-finished weapon, small, but carrying a bullet of the regulation calibre, and on a silver plate let into the ebony handle were graven the initials "H.S."

"Poor Spalding!" he murmured. "You were going to cut the knot of your difficulties with this little article once, and so am I, but in a different way."

He scrutinised the weapon narrowly, clicking the lock two or three times, and taking imaginary aim.

The poise was perfect.

How calm and peaceful rides the silver-wheeled chariot of night! How tranquil, in their mysterious distance, shine the golden stars, darting a twinkling glance down into this still, out-of-the-world hollow, where not even the chirp of an insect or the rustle of a disturbed leaf breaks the absolute hush of the night! On the one hand a wall of jagged rock rises to a serrated ridge, standing out sharp and clear; on the other, the sprays of the cl.u.s.tering foliage are photographed in shining distinctness. Above, in a towering background, a great mountain peak rears itself, dim and misty, enflooded in the slumbrous moonlight. A scene of eternal beauty--a holy calm as of another world!

But, lo! Standing within the shade of the thick foliage is the figure of a man--erect, motionless, as though petrified. For nearly an hour has he maintained his immovable att.i.tude; and now a suspicion of a start runs through his frame. He is listening intently, for the ring of a bit and the tramp of hoofs becomes audible. It is one of those nights when the most distant of sounds would seem to be even at one's elbow; and now this sound draws nearer and nearer, and, in addition, a word or two in smothered tones. The listener's face wears a ruthless look as two hors.e.m.e.n enter the glade and, reining in, peer cautiously around.

"Perhaps our valiant friend is going to cry off," sneered one of them.

"Cry off? The divil a bit!" was the reply. "Claverton's all there, I can tell ye. He'll turn up in a minute."

"Thank you, McShane," struck in a voice, in the same low, cautious tone, as the watcher glided from his concealment.

"Och! there ye are! Now, we'd better get to business at once. First of all, we'd better lave the horses here close at hand in case we should want them."

This was done, the three steeds being fastened securely to a small mimosa tree.

"I say, you fellows," said the kindly Irish doctor, "is it determined to go through with it you are? Bedad, and hadn't you better shake hands, and go straight home and have a brew o' punch together? Faith, an' it's better than riddlin' each other with lead."

"My dear McShane, what on earth will you propose next?" said Claverton, while Truscott's face, glowering with rage in the moonlight, was answer enough on his part.

"Ah, well I see it's blood-lettin' ye mane. Now ye'll just both o' ye sign this bit o' paper. It's meself that would rather be out of it. A duel with only one second! Why, it's like an election with only one candidate--he gets kicked by both sides and thanked by neither, bedad."

The "bit of paper" in question set forth that Dennis McShane acted in the matter at the joint request of both parties, and it was a precaution which he had deemed advisable to take in case the transaction should terminate disastrously, or at any future time be brought to light--or both. Without a word each affixed his signature, and then Dennis proceeded to pace out the ground. The duel was to be fought with six-shooters, the first three shots at twenty-five, and the rest at twenty paces.

"Now ye'd better look at each other's pistols, as there's no one to do it for ye," he said.

What was it that made Truscott start and turn a shade whiter, and nearly let his adversary's weapon fall as he took it into his hand to examine it? We have said that it was a beautifully-finished weapon, with a silver plate let into the handle, and on this, standing out distinctly in the moonlight, were the initials "H.S." And Claverton, narrowly watching his enemy's countenance, noted this effect and wondered not a little. These formalities over, the doctor proceeded to reload the weapons, which were both of the same calibre. Then he placed the combatants, twenty-five paces apart, taking scrupulous care that each should enjoy an equal proportion of advantage from the moonlight.

Truscott, to do him justice, was no coward. He had come there fully determined to slay his adversary if he could; and as for his own share of the risk, why, that must be left to the fortune of war. But, when his eye fell upon those initials, something very like a shiver ran through him. There was something portentous in the sight of this relic of the past rising up as it were in judgment upon him, here in this lonely nook, away at the other side of the world. There was no mistaking the weapon, he knew it only too well, for he had handled it often. It was the identical one. He would have gone so far as to object to it; but what valid reason could he give, seeing that in size and calibre it was an exact facsimile of his own? No; things must take their chance. But he felt greatly unhinged, for all that.

Claverton, on the other hand, was untroubled by any misgiving whatever.

Stay. What is that black object crouching high up on the cliff? It is alive, for it might have been seen to move had the trio beneath been less intent upon their errand of blood. Only a stray baboon wandering among the ledges of the rocks.

"Now," said McShane, withdrawing to a safe distance. "Be careful not to fire till I count three. Every shot must be signalled. Now, are you ready?"

No cloud veiled the unbroken calm of the starry heavens. The silver moon looked silently down, flooding hill and dale in her pale, clear light, shining like chastened noontide upon that sequestered hollow and the strip of open glade in the centre, where stood two men pointing their weapons at each other's hearts. It will soon shine upon a ghastly stream of ebbing life-blood, crimsoning out upon the dewy turf. One of those two men must die here. Which will it be?

"One--Two--Three!"

A double report, but sounding like a single one, so simultaneous is the effect. A dull, thundrous echo rolls sullenly along the face of the overhanging cliff. The smoke lifts slowly, and there is a sickly, sulphurous smell mingling with the cool, fresh air. Both men are standing motionless, waiting for the second signal. As yet both are unhurt; Truscott heard his adversary's ball whiz very close past his right ear, but his own shot was wider.

Again the signal is given. This time it is Truscott's left ear which feels the close proximity of the lead; and but for the fact of his own bullet ploughing up the ground some forty yards off, he might as well have fired with blank cartridge for all the apparent effect. His wrath is terrible, and blazes forth in his livid, distorted countenance and staring eyes. He can see that the other is a dead shot, and is, as yet, merely playing with him. And mingling with his wrath is a chilling misgiving; and as he stands fronting his opponent's pitiless eyes, he is almost unnerved. Fury, hate, and even despair, are stamped upon his features; the perspiration lies in beads upon his forehead, for he feels that opposite to him stands his executioner. Claverton, on the other hand, is dangerously cool, and his eyes gleam with a deadly purpose. It is a scene of horror, this drama being enacted in the moonlit glade.

The dark object overhead has disappeared from the cliff.

"Be jabers, but ye'd better knock off now," exclaims the Irishman, in grave, serious tones. "The shots make the very divil of a row, echoing among the rocks. We shall have a patrol down on us directly, or a host of niggurs, an' I don't know which'd be the worst."

"Has he had enough?" asks Claverton, in a cold, contemptuous tone, turning his head slightly towards the speaker.

An imprecation is the only reply the other vouchsafes, and again they exchange shots. Truscott, who is quite off his head, blinded by his helpless rage, blazes away wildly. But he feels his adversary's ball graze his right ear, exactly as the first had done, and his adversary's face wears a cold, sinister smile.

Three shots have been fired. The next three will be at a shorter range.

"Haven't you two fellows peppered each other enough?" asks McShane.

"Well, if ye will go on ye must," he adds, receiving no reply. "It's at twenty yards now."

The distance is measured, and again the two men stand facing each other.

Claverton, watching his enemy's features, can see them working strangely in the moonlight, and knows that he would give all he has in the world to be safe out of it. In other words, he detects unmistakable signs of fear; but it does not move him, his determination is fixed. He will shoot his adversary dead. He has, as Truscott rightly conjectured, been playing with him hitherto, and also with the desire to allow him every chance, but the next shot shall tell. He will have no mercy on this double-dyed traitor, who has sneaked in treacherously in his absence, and placed a barrier between him and his love.

No, he will not spare him. This time he will shoot him dead; and Truscott reads his doom in the other's eyes, as once more, with the distance diminished between them, they stand awaiting the signal.

"One--T--!"

A terrific crash bursts from the brow of the overhanging height, and Truscott, with a spasmodic leap, falls backward, as the red jets of flame issue forth, to the number of a score, from the rifles of the concealed savages. Claverton feels a hard, numbing knock on the left shoulder, as he and the doctor rush to the side of the fallen man.

"Truscott, man, where are you hit?" is the letter's hurried inquiry; but as he lifts the other's head he is answered, for it lies a dead weight in his hand. A dark stain is oozing forth upon the moonlit sward, welling from a great jagged wound. The "pot-leg" has gone clean through Truscott's heart; and now, as McShane lays down his head, the glazed eyes are turned upwards to the sky, and the swarthy face is livid with the dews of death.

"He's dead as a door-nail, bedad," said the doctor. "And it's ourselves that'd better be lavin', and that mighty quick, or we'll get plugged, too." Even while he spoke the leaden messengers were whizzing about them with a vicious "pit--pit!"

Truscott, as he had said, was dead as a door-nail, and it was clearly useless to remain. And now came in their foresight in keeping their horses close at hand. Loosening the terrified animals, which were snorting and tagging wildly at their bridles, they mounted and dashed off at a gallop just as a number of dark forms issued swiftly and stealthily from the bush to cut off their retreat, while the enemy on the cliff kept up a continuous fire. Two or three a.s.segais were thrown at them; and then the Kafirs, who could now be descried pouring down the rocks in swarms, seeing that they were well mounted, and the ground ahead was fairly clear, relinquished the pursuit.

"An' didn't I tell ye that we should have the niggurs down upon us?"

cried McShane, turning in his saddle to look back at the peril they had so narrowly escaped. "That poor divil's lost his number anyhow, and it's glory be to the blessed saints that we're not lyin' alongside of him."

"I rather think I'm hit, too. My arm feels as if it was going to drop off," said Claverton, quietly. But he was deadly pale.

"Hit! are ye?" rejoined McShane, with an anxious glance at him. "Well, hold up till we get back to camp. It may not be very bad after all. Is it in the shoulder?"

"Yes, I think it's only a spent ball. The bone isn't touched."

"Faith, and ye'd better have knocked off and come away when I first spoke. That poor divil would be alive and well now."